“Remember to square your knots,” I told a nervous resident at station three, kept circulating—adjusted lamp height, corrected needle angles, praised decent technique. The first session passed in a haze, like sunshine filtered through frosted glass. Jesus, I didn’t get this tied up over guys, especially not after just one night.
Not just any guy, though. No. This was a resident who’d be working with me, under me. I’d rate his performance in the competition on Friday, and at some point, he’d be rotating through my service. As the most senior fellow there, I’d be the one writing his evals. What a fucking mess.
So…disclose the conflict? “Yeah, see, I fucked him and then left a hundred bucks on the nightstand. What? Oh, was it worth it? Man, I’d have paid triple that.”
Awkward.
Maybe we could leave out the part about the money. Or maybe we could just not tell anyone—agree it was a freak coincidence we’d never mention again, one we sure as hell wouldn’t repeat. Also, though?
I deserved an explanation.
He approached me as if I were a ticking bomb. Not wrong.
“Morning,” he said. “Finn Hayes.”
Steady voice but slightly uncertain posture, jaw a shade too tight. I held his eyes for just a moment, then looked down and checked him off my list. The name was real, then. That was…something.
I reminded myself to breathe—normal, nothing to see here—and handed over his suture kit. He took it with careful fingers and a quiet thanks, then shuffled along. I turned to the next intern in line. Smile, nod, keep it moving.
We’d talk later.
The service stairwell dumped me onto a baking slice of roof, framed by a railing and humming air-conditioning units. Late-afternoon sun bounced off every metal surface, the river below a blinding rope of light. Sweat tickled my hairline before the door even thunked shut.
I’d found this lookout a couple of years ago, after a bad shift, and it had become my quiet place when I needed a breather, a moment to jot down thoughts that didn’t belong in a chart. I’d never met another soul up here. With the heat beating down, I doubted anyone in their right state of mind would venture out today of all days and catch me with Finn.
Well. On that note, I clearly wasn’t in the right state of mind—pacing like a caged lynx in dark pants and sneakers, my shirt already sticking to my shoulder blades. I kept replaying the moment I’d spotted him in the crowd, interlaced with flashes of That Night like a surreal double exposure.
That Night. Yes. Capital letters.
Eyeliner like a dare.That’s all I’d put into my notebook the next day. Not a journal, no, because I wasn’t a teenager. Just…containment. A place to put the extra noise so I could function, things likePigeons are just flying ratsandSometimes I miss quietandDoes hand sanitizer count as cologne?
Cautious footsteps sounded on metal stairs. The door inched open, and Finn emerged into the afternoon glare—navy scrubs and backpack slung over one shoulder, hesitation written into every line of his body. He squinted, found me, and offered a painfully tentative smile. “Hi.”
I’d had a plan: Establish the hard facts, confirm that neither of us wanted an HR circus, and agree that it could never happen again. Even though—no. Could never happen again. Full stop.
And then the cautious, almost guilty tilt to his smile punched the air from my lungs. Any anger I’d harbored? Melting away like ice in the sun, just like my resistance the moment he’d kissed me outside the bar.Dangerous.
I folded my arms. “So. Dr. Finn Hayes.” Testing it, like probing at a loose tooth.
He winced. A breeze ruffled his hair. He looked young, earnest, a little terrified—hardly even resembling the sexy, quick-witted stranger who’d caught my eye three nights ago. “Yeah, uh. That’s me. And you’re, um. Dr. Jesse Maddox.”
My frustration wobbled into confusion, a distant sense of disbelief trickling in. “Yeah. So, okay—awkward. But I’m gonna have to ask. Are you or are you not a sex worker?”
His eyes widened as if the question surprised him on some level—hearing it out loud, maybe. “No. I’m… God, no. Nothing of the sort.” He shoved a hand through his brown curls and glanced away. “The guy who came up to me just assumed somehow, must’ve been the eyeliner. And then I…rolled with it.”
“Rolled with it?” A faint hint of irritation sparked. “Interesting choice.”
“More like an idiot move.” He shot me a sheepish look, and Jesus, yes—even now, I could see why I’d bought whatever he’d been selling. Or not selling, actually.
“Why?” I asked.
He exhaled in a rush, then stepped closer, hands loose at his sides. “I got dumped. Two weeks ago. My boyfriend—well, ex—said I was married to my ambitions, that mediocre sex wasn’t worth a four-hour drive.”
“Mediocre?” I echoed, then realized that I’d honed in on the wrong detail. Still.
Finn rubbed a hand over the nape of his neck, a faint flush creeping up over his cheeks. “Yeah. ‘I’m not gonna drive four hours for medical rambling and some sloppy grinding.’ Direct quote.”
Wow. It might have been funny if not for the subtle trace of hurt shining through his tone.
